The Love Detective (14 page)

And now they’ve uncrossed again, I muse, watching as they recede away into the distance and wondering if I’ll remember them, if they’ll remember me. If in years to come I’ll be somewhere, doing something, and I’ll think again of the moment when I was once on a train, playing peek-a-boo with a baby and waving at children, while travelling across India . . .

I’m not sure how long I stand there, all thoughts of killing time long forgotten as the hot wind rushes over me, the rhythmic clatter of the train providing a hypnotic backing track, before I’m finally distracted by hair whipping into my eyes as my ponytail comes loose, the hairband falling onto the floor.

Quickly, I bend down to grab it. But I’m too late. As I fumble for it, a gust of wind grabs hold of it, and just when I think it’s going to be blown away, another hand reaches for it. I look up and come face to face with the young boy with the headphones who’s been sitting opposite me. Wordlessly he holds it out to me.

‘Oh . . . thank you,’ I say loudly above the clatter of the train.

His headphones are now slung around his neck and I notice he’s smoking a cigarette.

As I take the hairband from him, his face breaks into a shy smile. ‘Hello, I am Vijay, what is your good name?’ he asks in quaintly old-fashioned English.

‘Ruby,’ I smile back.

‘Where are you from?’ he continues politely.

‘England.’ Scraping my hair back with my hands, I tie it tightly.

‘Oh, jolly good,’ he replies cheerfully.

I smile at his use of the phrase. It reminds me of something my Great-Uncle Harold would say, not a teenager smoking a cigarette.

‘This is your first time in India?’

‘Yes,’ I nod. ‘I’m travelling to Delhi.’

‘Are you married?’

His last question takes me by surprise. As pleasantries go, I wasn’t expecting this one. ‘Um, no,’ I shake my head.

He looks shocked. ‘Why not?’

I’m not sure whether to be offended or amused by all these questions, but I don’t have time to be taken aback as Sam leaps into my mind and for a moment I falter, blindsided by the emotions that follow. ‘Because I haven’t met the right person,’ I reply, roughly shoving him and those emotions out again. It’s become my stock answer. Well, isn’t it every single girl’s?

But if I think this is going to appease Vijay, I’m mistaken.

‘How old are you?’ he frowns, his dark eyes looking troubled.

‘Older than you,’ I smile, disarmed by his charm and honesty. Vijay, I realise, is genuinely curious, and it actually makes a refreshing change from when you meet a stranger in London and politely chit-chat about the weather and Tube delays. Neither of which either of you really cares about.

‘I am nineteen and a half,’ he replies defensively, puffing out his rail-thin chest.

‘Not much older than me then,’ I tease.

But he doesn’t get the joke and instead replies solemnly, ‘If you want to find a good husband I have many friends.’

I feel a flush of embarrassment creeping up my cheeks. First my agent and now Vijay. Do I really look that desperate?

OK, don’t answer that, Ruby.

‘No, thank you, I’m fine,’ I say hastily.

‘That is good,’ he nods, breaking into a dazzling smile.

‘So – are
you
married?’ I ask, turning the conversation around to him. He seems too young to be married, but he’s so interested in the subject, I’m intrigued.

‘No,’ he shakes his head and, putting out his cigarette, reaches into his pocket and produces a mobile phone. ‘But I am in love.’ Angling the screen he shows me a photograph of a pretty Indian girl laughing into the camera. ‘Her name is Suhana.’

‘She’s very beautiful,’ I smile.

‘Yes, I know,’ he nods, and gazes lovingly at the screen.

‘You make a great couple,’ I add, charmed by the way he’s cradling his phone in his hands and staring at the photograph, like a lovesick puppy. ‘How did you meet?’

‘She was in my class at school. I remember when I first saw her, I was just a boy and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen, she was like a princess . . .’ He breaks off smiling as I listen, fascinated, to his story. ‘I could not believe it when one day she came to talk to me! Little Vijay, with his brother’s trousers that were too big and no front teeth.’

I laugh as he does a comical impression of a gawky, toothless little boy.

‘I was so shy and she was so kind to me. As children we played together, we were childhood sweethearts, but then we grew up . . .’

I wait for him to continue, but he falls silent. ‘And?’ I cajole, wanting to know the rest of the story. ‘What happened?’

‘Her father sent her away to stay with relatives; we do not see each other any more . . .’ He trails off sadly.

It’s not the ending either of us was hoping for and I feel a crash of disappointment. ‘But why?’ I ask, confused. Now I’m the one asking all the questions.

‘I am not a rich man,’ he shrugs resignedly, his shoulders sagging in his thin cotton shirt.

‘So what?’ I protest. ‘That shouldn’t matter.’

‘He wants the best for his daughter,’ he replies with the kind of obedience I’ve never seen from a nineteen year old in London.

‘But you are the best!’ I protest, jumping to his defence. OK, so I’ve only known Vijay for five minutes, and admittedly all I know is that he likes to play loud jangly music on full volume, but after listening to his story I just know he’s a good guy. I can tell. Like you can tell a good apple.

‘That is very kind of you, Ruby, but Suhana is very special . . . the most special woman that any of the gods could create . . .’ He looks back at the photograph and sighs deeply.

‘Do you know where Suhana is?’

‘No,’ Vijay shakes his head. ‘And I know she will not disobey her father and contact me. She is a good daughter.’

‘What about her father, have you tried to speak to him?’

‘Many times,’ he nods. ‘But I know that I can never win Suhana’s hand. He was very angry when he discovered we were in love . . . he is a very powerful man.’

‘But maybe if you try again, maybe he will listen,’ I suggest, but Vijay shakes his head.

‘He is a wise man,’ he says respectfully, rendering me silent. ‘But I would like to be able to speak to her, to hear her voice, to know she is safe . . .’

I watch as he looks back at the photograph on his phone and strokes the screen gently with his thumb, before slipping it back into his breast pocket.

‘That is all I want . . . to know that she is safe and happy in her new life.’

Chapter 12

Vijay and I talk for ages about life and love, and then he asks whether we can be friends on Facebook, with such formality and politeness I have to stifle a smile. Finally, leaving him to smoke another cigarette, I make my way back inside the air-conditioned carriage.

As I find my seat I’m greeted by a man with a large metal urn selling what looks like hot milky tea, only it smells much more fragrant than my usual builder’s brew back home.

‘Chai?’ he asks, gesturing to me.

Up until now my only experience of chai tea has been a latte from Starbucks, but this looks like the real deal. ‘Ooh, yes please,’ I smile.

For only a few rupees I buy a small plastic cup and take a sip. It’s delicious. Like drinking a hot, sweet, spicy milkshake. No wonder it’s so popular, I notice, glancing around the carriage and seeing everyone hugging their little plastic cups.

‘Holy Moly.’

There’s a loud groan from the bunk opposite and I see the American stirring underneath his blanket, like the Loch Ness monster. Stretching out his arms, he’s yawning noisily and making a real show of waking up. Like he’s just woken from a really deep sleep.

I feel a beat of irritation. Rub it in, why don’t you?

Glancing sharply away, I ignore him and keep sipping my tea.

‘Whoa . . . I was totally wiped out.’

I will be calm and serene and not even aware of his presence.

‘Boy, I’m starving . . .’

Unfortunately his voice is like an irritating bluebottle buzzing around my head. Who is he talking to? Himself? I steadfastly stare ahead as if I can’t hear anything. Rather like Sam used to do when he was watching TV and I was trying to talk to him about our wedding plans. Apparently it’s all about men needing to retreat into their ‘cave’. Though in Sam’s case it turned out to be more to do with him wanting to retreat into Miriam-from-Marketing’s ‘cave’.

‘Hey, is that chai?’

Think cave. Think silent. Think
I can’t hear you
.

‘Excuse me?’

Except I can. Loud and clear.

‘Yes?’ I swing around in my seat, like one of the judges on
The Voice
. Only, in my case, it’s not because I’m liking what I’m hearing. Quite the opposite.

‘Did I miss the
chai wallah
?’

Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he looks at me. His hair’s stuck up all over and for a moment he looks almost sweet, like you could imagine him as a little boy waking up in his bunk bed.

If he wasn’t such a rude, selfish pinhead, of course.

‘Sorry?’

‘The guy selling chai tea,’ he explains.

From where I’m sitting I get a clear view of the corridor, at the far end of which I can see the man with his large silver pot of steaming hot chai. He’s about to make his way into the next carriage.

Unless, of course, someone calls out and stops him.

‘’Fraid so,’ I reply, turning away.

I know. I’m a terrible, terrible person.

‘Darn.’

‘Yup, shame,’ I nod, nonchalantly taking a sip of my sweet tea. I make a little slurping sound.

Not on purpose, of course.

We continue on late into the evening, trundling through stations, stopping every so often. As we do, various vendors get on, selling all different kinds of soft drinks and exotic-looking snacks.

‘Mmm, what are they?’ I ask, peering at a tray of delicious fried things being offered to me by a lady with intricately hennaed hands. ‘Are they samosas?’

‘You know, I wouldn’t eat anything from the vendors,’ warns a voice.

I don’t even have to turn around to know who it belongs to.

‘Nobody was talking to you,’ I mutter under my breath.

‘Maybe not, but I’m just saying,’ he replies.

At least I thought it was under my breath.

Feeling a hot blush creep over my cheeks, I try to focus on the lady with the hennaed hands, but her tray has been commandeered by the man with the pistachio nuts.

‘It would seem not everyone shares your view,’ I can’t resist replying, as I watch pistachio man buying up half a dozen of her snacks.

‘There’s always gonna be someone who will swim in shark-infested waters.’

Rule number one. Never engage. It’s like when you come home on the night bus and there’s always some weirdo drunk guy trying to talk to you. It’s the golden rule. And I’ve just broken it.

‘I wouldn’t exactly put samosas in the same category as sharks,’ I bite back.

Well, sod it. In for a penny, in for a pound.

‘I’m sure they’re totally fine, but there’ve been a couple of reports of people being drugged and their stuff stolen,’ continues Mr Know-It-All. ‘When you’re travelling alone, it doesn’t hurt to be on the safe side—’

‘I have travelled before, you know,’ I say, hotly. OK, so a mini-break to Paris with a girlfriend isn’t really the same as a train journey across India by myself, but still. I don’t want him thinking I’m completely green.

‘It’s best to just stick with the food they give you on the train,’ he nods, motioning to a uniformed employer who appears through the sliding doors with a trolley piled high with tinfoil trays.

As he enters I’m hit by a strong whiff of spices. I watch as he starts moving down the carriage, handing them out, and I suddenly realise I’m starving. With everything that’s been happening, I’d forgotten to eat, but now my stomach has remembered and it starts complaining loudly.

As he hands out the food, I haven’t a clue what I ordered, and I peel back the foil lid with a mixture of hunger and apprehension. After my run-in with the masala omelette I’ve learned that, although I love Indian food,
real
Indian food doesn’t love me. My local Indian restaurant in London prepares its dishes with Western taste buds in mind, but here everything is much more authentic, and much,
much
spicier.

I feel a tug of relief. Boiled rice, OK, that seems pretty safe . . . I turn to the next tray which reveals some kind of innocent looking dhal . . . and that looks fine too . . .

I tentatively dip in a fork.

As soon as it touches my tongue, it’s as if my taste buds are on fire. There’s hot and then there’s incendiary. Almost choking, I reach for a bottle of water and glug it back, but my mouth is still burning.

‘Can’t take the heat, huh?’